This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Please, tell me...’

  ‘He was shot for desertion.’

  Her eyes seemed to glaze over as she adsorbed his words. She sprung to her feet. ‘No, not Jack, you’ve got that wrong, that can’t be true.’

  Guy stood up and reached out for her. ‘He didn’t deserve it, it was unjust –’

  ‘Unjust! You’re lying...’ She pummelled him in the chest. ‘He wasn’t shot; were you there? Did you see it, you’re lying; tell me the truth, tell me.’

  With one hand he tried to catch her arms, his other hand holding onto his crutch. ‘Mary, stop.’ He fell back onto the bench.

  Drained by her outburst, Mary looked as if she was about to faint.

  ‘Sit down, Mary.’

  ‘Desertion. It can’t be true. Guy, please, tell me the truth.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is true. Jack, my Jack, was shot for desertion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh my dear Lord. What am I going to do? I can’t carry on now, knowing...’

  The tears came. She fell onto Guy’s lap, resting her head, while he stroked her hair. A seagull flapped by, squawking; the ship’s funnels belched their smoke. ‘You have to carry on,’ he said. ‘Look at what you’re carrying – someone needs that; some poor blighter is depending on you. Think of them all here, on this ship, many of them their lives ruined – they need people like you. Go now, go to the man who needs this.’

  She sat up. ‘And you, Guy, is your life ruined?’

  ‘My life is changed. The leg, that’s nothing; Jack – it’s something we’ll all have to learn to live with. The war, it’s part of us now, we can’t alter that but we can learn to live with it. My life’s changed, but no, it’s not ruined, far from that.’

  ‘Guy, always the optimist.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the only way to get through all this. You’d better go.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I had. You’re right, someone is waiting for this.’

  ‘Next time you’re in England, will you come visit?’

  ‘Of course.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s not as if we live far apart. Guy, you know, I’m still sorry about what happened, you know, between you and me.’

  ‘I understand now. It took Jack’s death to make me understand but I do.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Guy Searight.’

  ‘I know. Off you go.’

  ‘Yes. Goodbye, Guy.’

  He watched her with her jug and tubing as she walked away from him, slightly unsteady with the swell of the sea. As she reached a door, she turned and waved. He waved back.

  Guy made his way back to his cabin, and found Ray fast asleep. He lay on his bunk and thought of Mary and realised, with a slap of guilt, that he had transferred a bit of his grief to her and that somehow the weight that had been pressing down on his shoulders since his last visit to Jack had ever so slightly been lifted.

  An hour later, Guy peered out of the porthole. ‘Ray, wake up, wake up.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Look...’

  ‘Oh my word, are those the white cliffs everyone keeps talking about?’

  ‘They sure are.’

  ‘I can see why – they’re beautiful. So, this is England?’

  Guy felt a surge of pride rise within him as he said, ‘Yes, Kiran Singh, this, my friend, is England.’

  No sooner had the words left his mouth, an explosion ripped through the ship; a tremendous crash, the cabin ceiling buckled. The men lost their footing as the ship tilted violently. ‘What was that?’ shouted Ray.

  ‘We’ve been hit.’ Immediately, the floor of their cabin began filling with water. ‘Shit, I can’t move.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘No, I’m stuck.’ Guy’s good leg was clamped within a mesh of metal wrapped around his ankle. A momentarily desire to laugh at the absurdity of his plight was soon replaced by fear rising as quickly as the water.

  ‘Good God,’ said Ray, ‘the bunk seems to have trapped your leg. Is anything broken?’

  ‘I don’t know; I can’t feel anything. Just get me out of here,’ he said trying to quell the intensifying panic within him. ‘See if you can prise the metal apart.’

  With his one hand, Ray pulled and tugged at the pieces of metal. ‘It’s difficult... I can’t see, the water’s too dark.’

  ‘Oh shit, this is not looking good.’ Guy felt the taste of panic in his throat.

  ‘God, I’m trying.’

  ‘Ray – the life jackets. My crutches too.’

  ‘Yes, life jackets, crutches.’ Ray snatched both jackets, and helped Guy wriggle into one, securing the ties at the front.

  Outside, down the corridor, men were rushing amid shouts and screams; many on crutches but sliding on the slippery incline of the ship’s tilt. ‘Hey, someone help me,’ shouted Guy, his voice lost within the mayhem.

  ‘My fingers – they’re frozen from the water,’ cried Ray. ‘I’ll try pulling you up.’

  ‘That won’t work.’

  Ignoring him, Ray stood on the twisted bunk behind Guy, wrapping his arms beneath Guy’s armpits, while Guy jabbed at the coil of metal with his crutch. ‘Brace yourself,’ said Ray, trying to heave him up. The metal dug deeper into Guy’s leg, he screeched with pain as the two men fell over, causing Guy’s leg to lean at an awkward angle. The pain was acute and Guy swore until he was able to right himself. The water had risen to the height of their waists.

  ‘I’ll try again.’

  ‘No, get someone to help.’

  But as soon as Ray stepped into the corridor he was knocked over in the rush of panicked men and fell awkwardly. Guy could see him. ‘I need someone’s help,’ yelled Ray, getting to his feet. ‘You, sir, can you help me?’

  The water was now swirling round Guy at stomach height. Its weight was pressing into him. ‘Ray, you go, mate.’

  ‘What? And leave you here?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. It’s an order, you hear.’

  ‘You can’t order me about, you’re a private as good as I am and you know it.’

  ‘Please, Ray, leave me. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘No, I stay here with you.’

  ‘Ray, Kiran, we’ve only just met; you don’t have to do this.’

  ‘I can’t –’

  ‘Just go, you stupid fucking Indian bastard.’

  It did the trick, Ray put on a show of hurt and waddled through the water, his arms held high.

  Guy used his crutch to pummel the metal but to no avail, the water was now up to his chest, squeezing the air out of him. He knew now that the end was close; he had a couple of minutes. A thousand thoughts crashed through his mind – his mother, his father, Mary, even his cousin Lawrence and Jack, especially Jack. He tried to pray but found that the words refused to come. At least he’d managed to tell Mary about Jack – far better it came from him than anyone else. I’ll see you again, the words came back to him, filling his mind, but not too soon, you hear? The water lapped at his throat. Well, this was fairly soon, not even a week. He tried to think of Jack, of Mary, to keep the panic at bay the last few moments but instead the German boy came into view, clutching the bayonet, welcoming Guy to join him.

  He was now having to stretch his neck in order to keep his mouth above water. The German boy’s face, which had always been a blur, now came sharply into focus – a long face, solid chin, deep eyes, his uniform impeccably clean. The boy was mouthing the Lord’s Prayer in English, encouraging Guy to follow suit – Our Father, who Art in Heaven... But Guy’s mouth was clamped shut as the water rose still further, inching up towards his nostrils. The strain of stretching his whole body was beginning to tell, the pointless but inescapable need to delay the inevitable a few moments longer. Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will de done... A huge cranking noise filled Guy’s ears and the ship tilted violently, throwing Guy into a swirl of water, spinning round, before throwing him against a cabin wall. It took him a few moments to r
ealise the jolt of the ship had freed him. But now immersed in water and holding his breath, he grappled and swam his way into the corridor and from there could see a faint light coming from the top of the steps. In his mind he told himself to keep calm, the German boy was still there, reassuring him. Using the corridor walls as a guide, he swam hard towards the light.

  Reaching the steps, he could see a body, face down, swaying slightly. Guy reached out for the rail and pulled himself up, his chest aching from pain. He felt as if he wasn’t moving, as if his efforts were in vain but the light seemed to rush toward him and in an ecstasy of deliverance he broke through the water and released his breath into the clear air. His chest pounded as he bent double at the top of the stairway, still clutching onto the rail, retching, wanting to be sick. His ankle was bleeding, the blood swirling into the water, but he felt no pain. Guy took in the scene in front of him: men yelling, many of them amputees, clinging onto the deck or gripping the ship’s rail as the vessel listed portside, trying not to slip overboard. The bow of the ship had gone under up to its fore funnel but the incline to the stern was gentle enough to climb – at least for now.

  There was hope in the air – the portside lifeboats had been lowered and, better still, sailing alongside, twenty, maybe thirty yards hence, the destroyer had drawn level, its crew urging the stricken men to jump and swim across. The more able were helping the basket cases, carrying them, helping to lower them down to the awaiting lifeboats. Amongst them, a couple of nurses, working feverishly, making sure the men had their life jackets on. Guy wanted to help but as soon as he got to his feet, without his crutches he slipped and fell.

  ‘Guy, you’re all right?’ It was Lampton.

  ‘Yes. You?’

  ‘Let me help – you have to jump.’

  ‘No, not yet, there’s still time.’

  ‘Not long – look.’ The ship was still going down, water seeping up the deck.

  It was then he saw her. ‘Mary!’

  She screeched back and waved at him, an odd gesture, he thought, as if she was waving at him from across the moors.

  He struggled towards her, akin to climbing up a hill covered in sheet ice, as she bundled a double amputee towards helping hands. ‘Mary,’ he screamed, ‘where’s your life jacket?’ Her face was white, her hair blowing in the wind.

  ‘There’s only enough for the passengers.’

  ‘Here, take mine,’ he yelled as he reached her. Behind her a couple of bodies, their limbs flayed out awkwardly.

  ‘No, Guy, I can swim. Please go, jump if you have to.’ Her hands were covered in the blood of the men she was helping. He tried to help her with another invalid but managed only to lose his balance and fall, landing on his poor leg. The pain shot through him and took his breath away. On opening his eyes, he noticed one of the dead men. It was Browne, Stephen Browne with an ‘e’, his eyes wide open, his lips blue. ‘Oh no, Stephen, not you,’ he muttered. He pulled himself up, his arms flailing to keep balance. Mary was helping a blinded lieutenant, sodden bandages falling off the congealed mess that was once his eyes.

  ‘Guy, please save yourself. Think of your parents. They’ve already lost one son. This way, Lieutenant, you can do it, careful.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘You’ve done your job; this is mine. I’m staying. This way, that’s it.’

  Another pair of hands took the blind lieutenant. ‘I’ve got this one now, sister.’

  ‘Mary, please, you’ll go under.’

  ‘I’ve lost Jack; I don’t care what happens to me now.’

  For a few moments the two of them stood face to face, momentarily aloof from what was happening all around them, shut off from the noise, the shouts and screams. A flock of seagulls circled noisily above them. This was the moment to admit to Mary, as well as himself, what he always knew in his heart to be true – that he loved her and when he thought about it he realised he always had. ‘Please, Mary...’

  ‘No, Guy, no.’

  He felt himself being dragged away, an arm under his armpit. ‘I maybe an Indian bastard, but I’m a faithful Indian bastard.’

  ‘Ray?’ He threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘This time, I’m not letting you go, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, OK, whatever you say.’ He realised, with a shock, that he was crying. When he turned around, Mary had gone.

  *

  Dozens of men had been taken on board the destroyer, Guy and Ray among them. Given a tot of brandy and a cup of hot tea, they were soaking wet but covered with blankets provided by the crew. They watched with morbid fascination as the HMS Derby looked set to vanish beneath the waterline, its engines still working, the propellers spinning uselessly as the stern hovered in the air. The second funnel had almost disappeared from view. There were still plenty of men in the sea, bobbing like corks, even those lacking limbs, trying to reach the two lifeboats treading water half way between the ship and the destroyer. ‘They’ll be OK,’ said Ray, ‘they’ve all got lifejackets.’

  ‘But there’re still some on the ship, including nurses and they haven’t got jackets.’

  ‘Is your friend there?’

  ‘Mary – I don’t know. I don’t know and it’s killing me.’

  ‘They still have time.’

  ‘But not much. Once she goes, they’ll be sucked into the vortex. Oh God, Mary, where are you?’

  The white cliffs seemed so ridiculously near; how could this have happened so close to home? Had they been torpedoed or had the ship struck a mine?

  He shouldn’t have told her about Jack; it had drained her of life, of wanting to live. His presence had counted for nothing; she’d only wanted Jack. The crew were helping more men out of the water. Despite their outer appearance of calm, he could see how grateful they were to find themselves on the solid deck of the destroyer. He’d felt the same, shivering, in shock, but thankful to be in the arms of safety and the warmth of a blanket. The tea and brandy had helped. But where was Mary? How could she put him through such torment?

  ‘I’ve got to go back.’

  ‘What?’ asked Ray. ‘Where to?’

  ‘I’ve got to save her, to get her off the ship.’

  No sooner had he thrown off his blanket than he was tackled to the deck. ‘Oh no you don’t, my mad English friend.’

  The two men grappled on the floor. ‘Ray, I can do it, it’s not far.’

  ‘You almost drowned once; I’m not letting you drown yourself now.’

  ‘Get off me, you Indian bastard.’

  ‘Ha, that won’t work this time.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ bellowed a passing crewman.

  ‘Help me,’ shouted Ray, ‘my friend here wants to take a swim.’

  ‘Is he fucking mad?’

  ‘Just help me.’ But Guy’s strength had already deserted him.

  A sinister noise of creaking metal stopped them in their tracks in their tangle of limbs and stumps. The three men watched in horror as the Derby breathed its last, the huge metal corpse plunging into the sea, the propellers still spinning as the water claimed the ship for itself. Clinging on, the last few men and nurses screamed as the ship sucked them down to their deaths. In its wake, the water bubbled as if boiling. Then came the stillness. On board the destroyer and the lifeboats every man stood in silence and saluted, gazing at the empty space on the water where, moments before, the ship had been. Guy turned away, clenching his eyes shut, his mouth open, contorted, as if letting rip a scream.

  Part Three

  Chapter 28: The Homecoming – mid-November 1917

  As the destroyer sailed into Dover harbour, Guy saw a small crowd of people, English people, gathered on the quayside watching their arrival, cheering and waving flags at the returning soldiers. The men waved back but few felt like cheering. This was England. A cold and damp November morning in England, but still and forever England. Most of the men hadn’t stepped on home soil for months, even years.

  Some were na
ked beneath their blankets, their pyjamas ripped off by the strength of the sea. Ray and Guy allowed themselves to be shuttled off and onto the train that would take them to London.

  Guy’s every waking moment was taken up with Mary. The uncertainty was tormenting him; had she survived, had she been one of the nurses that stayed to the end, that had given their lives to be with the last men? He shuddered at the thought of her being sucked into that vortex. He should have done more. Why hadn’t he saved her? He couldn’t dislodge the image from his mind – Mary on the deck, without a life jacket, calmly ushering the blind lieutenant as if leading him on an excursion. She knew she was approaching death but seemed almost to be welcoming it. And that hurt – the thought that he’d made no difference.

  Once in London, Guy and his travelling companions were transferred by ambulance to different hospitals, depending on the severity of their injuries. He’d expected things to look different from what he remembered and was amazed at how little had changed in the city. Everything seemed so normal, so annoyingly normal. What right had London to remain unaltered while he had changed so immeasurably, both outside and in? But after a while, he noticed something that was different – there were so few young men around and he couldn’t help but view the ones he did see with a certain degree of suspicion.

  Guy and Ray were transferred to the Prince of Wales Hospital in Marylebone, formerly the Old Central Hotel. Somewhere, hidden within his anguish, Guy felt tremendously pleased to be back in London; he hadn’t realised how much he missed the sights and sounds of the capital. The trams, the motor vehicles, the horse-drawn traffic, the shouting of the street-traders, the automated music of the barrel-organs, the nauseating smell of the coal-fired smog. Ray merely seemed bemused by it all. ‘A far cry from your village in India, I guess,’ said Guy.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s all so marvellous. Guy, are you OK, my friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No.’

  Guy and Ray were shown to separate wards. He stood at the doorway and cast his eyes around. Everything seemed so large and spacious and so quiet compared to what he’d been used to. On a small table near the door, a vase full of pansies. A nurse showed him to his bed, next to which stood a small bedside cabinet and a chair. A dressing gown draped over the end of the bed. He thanked her.